Left

Posted on January 20, 2009

Deep

Posted on November 2, 2008

When

Posted on October 10, 2008

The forbidden word is anarchy, though so far we’ve bitten our lips, and treated it in much the same vein as recession was whispered until now. “If we don’t say it, maybe it won’t happen. And if it does, god forbid, nobody will be able to say that we were the ones who did it.”If only such logic flew. If only we could be five again, and by putting our heads under the blankets, we could make the monsters disappear. But the monsters are going nowhere; these guys have wind at their backs to grow exponentially. How tenuous is the state of our union? We are one bullet in Barack Obama’s head away from a wave of violence like none we’ve seen since the Civil War. And beyond that, on a global level, such anarchy could lead to financial markets cratering, riots worldwide, the overthrow of governments by military juntas, and undemocratic powers like China and Russia stepping in to fill the void.Take it from a history major, things could get rough. Not only are we facing economic depression, but we’re tip-toeing on the fringes of a serious social breakdown. Worst case scenario? The collapse of the United States into a balkanized confederation of nations, similar to Europe. Doesn’t seem possible? Here’s why it could be.As we sit here, unhinged voices at McCain/Palin rallies are yelling “kill him” about Barack Obama. The Secret Service has begun investigating Republican campaign events, so angry has their tenor grown, and are doing so while neither McCain nor Palin do anything to diminish the uproar. The Republican ticket has apparently decided the only way to win the election is by making hundreds, if not thousands, of mentally unbalanced Americans violently angry with Obama. Not just crackpots, of course—they’re more of an unintended consequence. Even so, the message is directed to said-homicidal-voter’s swelling patriotism while inferring that Obama is a Manchurian candidate—a Hussein named, terrorist fist-bumping, secret stooge of Al Qaeda. While the vast majority of Republicans might view this as political theater, the insane tend to take such things more literally.John McCain doesn’t want Barack Obama shot, but he appears increasingly willing to play to the passions of poor, unstable Americans. Voters like Timothy Dale Johnson, a disgruntled Little Rock, Arkansas, man, who earlier this summer stormed Democratic Party headquarters and murdered state party chairman Bill Gwatney. Johnson, who worked maintenance at a local Target, blamed Gwatney and Democrats in general for having a bad job. Read more

Have

Posted on July 28, 2008

I’d never heard of Toyako, Japan. I thought someone misspelled Tokyo by accident. But Toyako was the name of the place, a picturesque resort that Cheney had stripped off the map. All I could find online was a cartoon man pulling a rickshaw. This was where we sent President Bush as our envoy to the G-8 summit. He signed a pledge to halve carbon emissions by 2050, but otherwise he didn’t do much. What we really learned about him was this: The dude has serious skills with a shovel.

Study the photographic evidence. This is a man who takes pride in shoveling. The backdrop was a tree planting, a symbolic admiration of life. It’s always delightful to watch heads of state, dressed in their finely tailored suits, taking a breather from debating the impending collapse of the economy to plant a row of firs.

Current events haven’t left them with much. The G-8 has no Middle East members, so what else can they really do but smile and shovel sod for the cameras? At least the President likes shoveling, so all wasn’t lost. A photo search of “Bush with Shovel” returns ninety-two thousand photos. Many aren’t of Bush shoveling dirt, but shoveling seems to be a cornerstone of Bush’s photographic legacy. Here’s one of the President with a gold shovel. Here’s one of him shoveling with the Presidents of Canada and Mexico. Here’s Bush tearing up the North Lawn to replace a fallen elm. And here’s Bush in Toyako, a picture of Protestant work ethic—back straight, eyes to the ground, shovel held with strong, locked wrists. All the while, the young Russian President taps at the soil, and the French and German Prime Ministers look to be doing light gardening.

Bush doesn’t garden. Bush is a shoveler, a man who shovels when the cameras are off. He’s clearing brush, lost in sweet dreams.  He’s back in Crawford, home at the ranch. It’s late January and the men in suits have disappeared. The world is somebody else’s problem. “Laura, where’s my shovel?” he asks. Finally. Finally.

Washington Jones looks at politics from a different point of view.

Axis

Posted on July 4, 2008

When Walter answered his phone, he was genial. “Whatever you need,” he told me casually. Walter was a congressman from North Carolina; he later coined the term freedom fries, then became the first Republican to change his mind about Iraq. This tells you a thing or two about Walter. My job was to ask semi-probing questions. I was a wire reporter for the Fayetteville Observer-Times, stationed in Washington—I’d never even been to North Carolina. My editor told me what to write, I was little more than his apple-cheeked mercenary. Military, tobacco, and the occasional soft piece were the usual items on my agenda.

I tried to pick my subjects wisely—or as shrewdly as a twenty-three year old could. I’d been pushing to write a story about the fifteen-or so folks in the state named after senator Jesse Helms. Helms was a modern political giant, loved by legions, hated by other legions, but nonetheless an historical figure. I sat in Foreign Relations hearings where Helms, the Tar Heel state’s senior senator, unfurled meaty adjectives at times when he could not abide. “Aw, that’s just plum baloney,” he’d say in his smoky mountain drawl. He tooled the marble halls of power in a sturdy, black, motorized Lark, though the Washington press corp kept this hush-hush, like Roosevelt in his wheelchair. Yes, there were better stories to chase, but I was enamored with Senator No. I wanted to ask him probing questions about what he’d learned in his time in Washington, and what he hoped to do in his final years in office.

I filed numerous press requests while my editor laughed at me for trying. But I was determined to have supper with Jesse. It became my aim, my vision quest, my lonely crusade for historical journalism before moving onto baser assignments, of which there were always many. One morning, Ed said I was to interview the state’s congressional delegation about cum found on a blue dress. “See what Jesse has to say about that.”

Okay, so my boss was a prick. Lesson learned. Not that it salvaged my tilted fate. I was poised to spend long hours talking with congressmen about splooge. It was seminal fluid that brought me to Walter. Not mine, or his, but we had to have a serious talk about another man’s juice. I sat at my desk for almost an hour, wondering how I should tackle the subject. Instead of cum, I could call it semen. “Congressman, I’d like to ask you about semen. No sir, somebody else’s semen, but nonetheless very important semen. VIP sperm.” Read more

“Egg on his face!”

Posted on January 29, 2008

“Egg on his face!”
“Egg on his face!”
“Someone dropped egg on the President’s face!”
“What an embarrassment!”
“What a disgrace!”
“The President wiping egg off of his face!”

“Stop all the presses! Loop the raw feed!
Get on the wire! We’ve got a new lead!”
The reporters and cameras all fight to keep pace
With the fast breaking news of egg splattered on face.

“This just coming in,” the news anchors exhort.
“To the White House we go for this special report.”

“We’re on the South Lawn,” the reporters exclaim,
“On what moments before was a typical day,
The sun shining bright, the scene festive and gay,
The Marine Band on hand getting ready to play.
It was billed by his staff as a keen photo-op.
The commander en route to the first of three stops:
A factory, school, and then he would fly straight
To a party fundraiser. Ten-thousand a plate. Read more

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